Out, and out, and out, and on, and on, and on, and down, and down, and
down He sped, until one night, with only one to greet Him, He arrived.
His disembarkation so unpretending, so quiet, that it was not known on
earth until the excitement in the cloud gave intimation that something
grand and glorious had happened. Who comes there? From what port did
He sail? Why was this the place of His destination? I question the
shepherds, I question the camel drivers, I question the angels. I have
found out. He was an exile. But the world has had plenty of
exiles--Abraham an exile from Ur of the Chaldees; John an exile from
Ephesus; Kosciusko an exile from Poland; Mazzini an exile from Rome;
Emmett an exile from Ireland; Victor Hugo an exile from France;
Kossuth an exile from Hungary. But this one of whom I speak to-day had
such resounding farewell and came into such chilling reception--for
not even an hostler came out with his lantern to help Him in--that He
is more to be celebrated than any other expatriated one of earth or
heaven.